These Goodies
by Spicy-obsession
Summary: Rated M to be safe. While docked at the Citadel, Vega pays a visit to a strip club to get his mind off a certain commander-and fails miserably.


Written for a fill on the kinkmeme. Also another break from my MEBigbang fic. Churned this out in a few hours, whew! As always, read and enjoy please : )

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Purgatory is his usual haunt whenever the _Normandy_ makes a stop at the Citadel, but tonight's a special kind of night. Hands jammed in his pockets, Vega's gait is antsy: a little jittery, a little excited, a little bit of everything. What few friends he still keeps in touch with had recommended Sapphire for a relatively inexpensive good time, located not too far from the now defunct Chora's Den. Deep in the alien-dominant section of the wards, Vega avoids eye contact with anyone coming in or out of the club. The armored bouncer says nothing, giving him a perfunctory scan before waving him inside.

He heaves a small sigh of relief at the number of clients—a slow night then. A couple of dancers are wrapping up a song on the long, central platform in the room while several persons—both human and alien—cling to the bar on the right while a scantily-clad server mixes drinks. A quick glance at the group of girls sharing a smoke break reveals the establishment's heavy preference for asari/human women, which is just as well, given the object of unbridled lust on his mind at the moment. And if Vega has a few shots, he'd even admit that it's been going on for months now.

The lineup looks fairly decent for the cover charge he had paid at the door, all tight bodysuits and transparent heels, but the most obvious choice presents itself in the form of a woman with that true smoker's voice and brown skin as smooth as silk. The abundance of curls spilling over her glittered shoulders seals the decision. Bravado securely intact, Vega pulls his hands out of his pockets and saunters past the group, leveling an even stare at the woman and jerking his head towards a vacant table sequestered in the corner. She wordlessly pushes off of the counter with her elbows and follows him.

Vega feels a hand on his shoulder and tries not to jump. "So what'll it be tonight?" A voice whispers into his ear, and fuck if it didn't already do things to his pants with that husky lilt.

He turns and falls back on the couch, gesturing to the round table between them. "Let's start off with a song and go from there."

"Anything for you, big guy," she purrs, hoisting herself onto the counter. "Slow or fast?"

A _ping! _goes off as thirty credits migrate from his account to hers. His omni-tool fades out. "Something that'll make those hips roll." He fidgets in his seat. "Can—can you act bossy too?"

The stripper smirks knowingly. "Got a crush on your superior?"

Vega winces; he should have hidden his dog tags. "We don't have to spread that around."

"Oh don't worry, your secret's safe with me," she says and snaps her fingers. "I'm gonna take good care of you." A subtle partition slides down from the ceiling as something low-pitched and rhythmic begins to play.

The bass creeps under his clothes and makes his skin vibrate. He really had lucked out, spotting this woman from the bunch. She's like a copy with deliberate mistakes: soft in places where the original isn't, writhing in places where the original doesn't. Vega leans back and tips his head for a better look. Unsuprisingly, his mind gradually shapes the woman's face into more recognizable features. The lips grow fuller; her cheekbones become more pronounced; the brown in her eyes turn to a dark gray. His hand inevitably strays to his belt.

"No touching," the stripper barks. Tossing her hair back, she teasingly presses a foot against his abs. "Keep your hands on the sides. You haven't earned it yet."

His breath may or may not have hitched at those orders. He readily complies though his fingers itch to slide up her calf. She smiles and turns around, showing him her back. "Unzip me."

"Sure thing," Vega grunts, proud that he isn't shaking as he does just that. She shrugs out of her outfit, catches it on her shoe, and kicks it to the floor.

That red scrap of lace on her ass is the only thing she's wearing (unless the shoes count, which they so don't), and her breasts heave at him invitingly, nipples tipped almost black in a delectable shade Vega imagines on _her_. His hands obediently stay where they are, clenched and white-knuckled at his sides, as she does a split on the table, muscle tone evident in the defined gleam of her legs. It's suddenly gotten too hot to wear clothes.

The woman in front of him and the woman in his mind blur together. She slides off of the table with an enigmatic smile on her face and straddles his lap. His nostrils flare at her scent; underneath the perfume and smoke, there's sweat and salt and something indefinably feminine that makes his pants shrink two sizes too small. He lets out a shuddering breath. She chuckles and braces her arms against either side of him, lifting her hips so that they hover mere inches above his crotch.

"You need to be disciplined, soldier."

He opens his mouth.

"I didn't say you could talk." Abruptly she sinks down and grinds against him; he jerks forward. "In fact, you're a little too mouthy. From now on, you can only make noises. One more word out of you, and I stop. We clear?'

Vega nods, struck speechless anyway.

"Excellent." Her hips snap in time to the beat of the song, rolling and slow and fluid. Her hair falls across her face. He briefly closes his eyes, picturing what could have happened that time he had come up to her cabin under the pretense of asking for advice about the N7 program. What would she have looked like, wearing a red thong—

"You can move your hands now," she says, her face right in front of his, and Vega doesn't need to be told twice. He puts a broad palm on a swath of creamy inner thigh and another nestles itself above her hipbone. Her skin is warm and slick, thrumming with energy like after a particularly brutal workout in the shuttle bay. What had he been thinking, this was a terrible idea, pure torture, but the woman presses herself against his crotch again and rubs downward.

He groans, loudly. This was the best idea ever.

A half-hour later, Vega blessedly makes it back to the ship in one piece. He had to eyeball anybody who stared at him for too long on the way from Sapphire, and a fight had nearly broken out. Once inside, further miracles occur when he sees no one on the CIC floor. He fairly runs to punch the button for the elevator and looks down—yeah. That's not going away anytime soon. He sighs as the elevator door slides open, revealing who else but Commander Shepard in her BDUs. Time leisurely passes while he blinks stupidly at her, at a complete loss for what to do. She crosses her arms.

"Going down?"

Stepping into the space with her, Vega mutters, "Yep" as curtly as possible in order to curtail any stray comments that might slip out. He hadn't been allowed to talk during the entire duration with the stripper, and his pants have officially grown even tighter.

They stand side by side as the platform begins to move. He squints under the harsh lights, silently loathing them for highlighting the evidence of tonight's festivities.

"You're back rather late," Shepard says offhandedly.

"I had somethin' to do."

"Turning in for the night now?"

"Yeah."

A muted chuckle. "Alright then."

This elevator can't go any slower, but before he can fix it by kicking the door, it beeps its arrival at the crew deck and opens. Shepard steps out and faces him, giving a tiny nod. "Good night, Vega."

"Night," he grunts back.

Her expression flickers for a moment, and then breaks into a wide-eyed smile. "I'd take care of that if I were you before hitting the hay, though. Just some advice."

The door closes on Vega's gaping mouth.


End file.
